


Coming Back

by Sootgremlins



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Crying, Crying Castiel, Crying Dean, Fix-It, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Season/Series 13 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-08
Updated: 2017-11-08
Packaged: 2019-01-30 23:07:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12663318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sootgremlins/pseuds/Sootgremlins
Summary: Dean hates it. Hates the feeling. Hates the lack of feeling. Cas was there. He was right there, always there for him. Then he wasn’t. At first, it doesn’t hurt, it’s just numb. Just a black void where Cas is supposed to be. Then all he wants it to be able to feel. Anything; pain, hate, anger, sadness, anything. He gets nothing.Then he gets it all.





	Coming Back

**Author's Note:**

> Here is my little fix-it for season 13. Hope you enjoy!

Dean hates it. Hates the feeling. Hates the lack of feeling. Cas was there. He was right there, always there for him. Then he wasn’t. At first, it doesn’t hurt, it’s just numb. Just a black void where Cas is supposed to be. Then all he wants it to be able to feel. Anything; pain, hate, anger, sadness, anything. He gets nothing.

Then he gets it all.

All the pain, hate, anger, sadness, everything. And it’s just too much. Too much to be able to look at Jack without seeing a different set of eyes looking back. He doesn’t mean to be so harsh, but everything about him screams Cas. The tilt of his head, the questions he asks, the willingness to try. It’s like looking at a dead family member. It's easier to shift the blame onto him anyway.  
Then it hits him like a wave that simply sweeps him away. Away from Sam, away from any shred of hope, away from everything. He’s living in a bubble, watching as things unfold but not being able to interfere. 

He had been in love.

Not a fickle feeling that danced over him when he would pick up some chick at a dumpy bar, more like a link of a chain that leads him back to his angel no matter which way he turns.  
It hurts more than the hellhound that ripped him open. More than the chains of hell. More than any monster that’s beaten him into the ground. There isn’t a relief, no light at the end of his tunnel. Only darkness.

It’s a chilly Sunday morning when Sam takes Jack out. He doesn’t say where, so Dean doesn’t ask. He just doesn’t care at this point. He’s a little bit too tipsy and it’s only nine o’clock. A voice in the back of his mind tells him that it’s not healthy, it’s not normal. He forces it back. When was his life ever healthy or normal? What could another beer hurt? His head is pounding, probably leftover from last night's spree of drinking. Doesn’t matter, not like anyone is around to notice. 

The bunker is silent. No one in the kitchen, no one in the library. Just Dean and his thoughts in the war room.   
Then, he’s not alone. 

He flinches at the sound of wings. Like a flutter. Is even his mind mocking him now?   
“Hello, Dean.” His hand is so tight around the bottle, knuckles white. Almost cracking. Almost cracking just like him. Then the hand on his shoulder, and it’s too fucking much, what demented part of him is doing this? 

He closes his eyes, willing, hoping, praying (who’s left to pray to?) for this not to be real, “Dean.”  
He doesn’t open his eyes as he turns. Then, that would be real. Then, he would see his face. Then, he couldn’t pretend that he didn’t care. Yet he does. Forces his eyes to open. It’s the same face. Of course, it is, because his own mind knows that much, right? 

Blue eyes that rival the sky on the best day. He only sees them for a second, before tears blur them into pools of blue. No, no, no, it’s not fair. 

He’s floating in an ocean and his head can’t stay above the salty water. There are arms, he realizes, that is squeezing him. There's a hand in his hair, running down to the nape of his neck and a voice in his ear. Dean, you are all right. Dean, I am here. Please, Dean. 

He forces a choked, shuddering breath and blinks. It’s too real, it’s warm, there's the rough feeling of a coat that he recognizes all too well. The hand at the base of his neck is calloused but gentle. There’s no way his own mind could bring anything this real to him. 

“Cas?” Dean’s not sure how he forced that word out. He almost doesn’t recognize his own voice clogged with tears.

“Dean.” it’s an answer. He shoves slightly away from the warm embrace that he missed, so. damn. much. His shaking fingers find ground on a warm cheek, and it’s wet too. It’s Cas. He’s here and Dean doesn’t even want to start to think about what this means or could mean, or how, or when, or what. 

He presses his lips against the set in front of him, regretting all the time that hadn’t been able to do this. He pulls away all too soon and digs his head into the crook of Cas’ neck, and it smells like Cas.   
“I love you,” Dean feels the words leave his lips and then the dam breaks, “Cas, I love you. Fuck, I love you so fucking much. Cas-”  
He doesn’t get a chance to finish because Cas is kissing him now, and he can feel the thoughts drain from his mind and it’s all replaced with Cas.


End file.
